


Lapis Lazuli

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Gift Giving, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:07:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Geralt suddenly realises how much time he and Jaskier have spent together, and all the places they've travelled around the Continent. He decides that it's time to give the bard something to show how much he appreciates all of it.[Fluff]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 212
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #013





	Lapis Lazuli

His bird flies to Oxenfurt for the winter. The Academy still likes to keep him around for the busier autumn semesters because students will actually listen to someone like Jaskier, and Jaskier likes going back because it’s paid accommodation to weather out the harsh winters in. And Oxenfurt is familiar.

Not that he hasn’t thought of going to wherever it is Geralt goes. And Geralt hasn’t not thought of extending an invitation. Vesemir has made it abundantly clear; if their guests can behave themselves throughout the winter, and won’t mind being put to work for the essential jobs, then his pups can invite whoever they like to Kaer Morhen. Lambert has brought people before; notably a Cat from the Dyn Marv Caravan wandering around the Continent. A Griffin has roosted within their keep before too. Both Aiden and Coën defer to Vesemir, acknowledging that they’re guests and he’s the head of the keep, as is the order of things, and the winters go by without anyone killing each other. And that’s all the elder wolf can hope for, it seems.

The invitation sits on his tongue every year. He knows Jaskier knows of the keep. He’s asked about it before, when his lute is propped on his knee and he looks at Geralt with loud wonderment at all of the things he can lure out of the Witcher about his kind and his guild. He can’t blame the little bird. If he was given the choice of a warm academy apartment, with set banquet meals throughout the day, and a steady pay to tide him by, or a crumbling keep perched on top of the northern mountains, still haunted by the ghosts of everything that’s happened before, he knows what he would pick. But Kaer Morhen is home, and he can see past every horrid thing that happened within those walls, because what’s left behind is his family, and he’ll go wherever they are.

They’re only ever parted for a winter. Even the winters that make themselves longer than they need to be, stretching into spring and keeping the frosts around, it’s only one season. It’s strange that he goes the rest of the three without him.

And this seems to be much worse. It’s quiet on the road; with only his own thoughts and Roach’s chuffs and nickers keeping him company. It used to be the way of things in a world before. Before Geralt found himself a songbird and it perched on his shoulder, following him around from village to town to city and never knowing when to go away.

Gods forbid if Jaskier knew that Geralt secretly misses his voice. He spent so much time of their first year knowing each other trying to get Jaskier to shut up. But it became a gentle hum in the background of their travels. Jaskier would ramble on about something or other while he strolled next to Roach, occasionally brushing his hand along the mare’s neck. And the mare learned to not kick out at Jaskier’s shins or turn and nip his fingers. Her master seemed to like him enough to keep him mostly intact. That, and a few secret sugar cubes and apples snuck into her feed from the bard seemed to win her over.

Spring means his songbird will fly back to him, and autumn means that he’ll fly away again. A secure income and a warm place to hunker down throughout a potentially harsh winter, Geralt can’t blame the lark at all for going to roost.

It’s just the familiar groan of loneliness left behind is awful, and he hates how it makes itself known at night, when he’s slipping into an inn’s bed and the empty space on the other side seem to stretch on for leagues. It’s cold and Geralt always wakes with his arm stretched across, reaching out for someone who isn’t there. And that’s when his chest tightens and he wishes he could cross the Continent within a matter of strides, just to get his little lark back with him.

A courier comes one morning. Nothing more than a lad barely into his adulthood, with spots still speckled on his face and a mop of thick curly hair almost shielding his eyes, who somehow manages to find him in a merchant town’s tavern. Geralt glances up from his breakfast, regarding the lad for a moment as he fumbles through a knapsack of letters and parcels. “Geralt of Rivia,” he says primly, holding out a letter. As soon as the letter is in his hand, the lad scurries away, and that seems to be the end of that.

Geralt thins his lips. Contracts very rarely come to him. His name may start to be travelling further and further into the Continent, but notices are usually left on boards within the village or town itself. Contacting him directly isn’t how it works. He’s never in one place for too long.

But the envelope in his hand is crisp, freshly printed card, and a maroon ink seal at the back tells him all he needs to know. Oxenfurt’s emblem is printed into the wax, and the card smells vaguely of old books and ink.

He thumbs the letter open, running his eyes over the elegant scrawl inside.

_Meet me at the Three Crowns Inn for Beltane. Can’t wait to see you again. – Songbird_

Geralt’s chest clenches. He can’t stand from his table and run out of the inn fast enough.

* * *

He doesn’t know when he started calling Jaskier his little bird, but the bard certainly had no problems with it. If anything, he greatly encouraged it. Having someone as grumpy as Geralt dote on him seemed to be one of Jaskier’s favourite things. It’s a side of the Witcher that only he sees; when they’re curled in a bed together, or gathered around a campfire, and it’s just the two of them.

Jaskier has a pretty voice, and his songs are beautiful. Not that Geralt would ever tell him that. A preening smug Jaskier is borderline intolerable. He didn’t know why it tumbled out of his lips one night, when Jaskier dozed beside him and Geralt threaded his fingers through the man’s soft and freshly washed hair. But _songbird_ and _lark_ all seemed to fit. And Jaskier revelled in them.

Jaskier is also a magpie in some regards. A mischievous little thing that has a certain penchant for anything shiny and grand. He plucks vials of oils and lotions and soap bars from merchant stands and revels in how they smell, uncaring that the cost of them alone makes Geralt’s eyes water. He adorns his fingers in rings that catch the summer sunlight and glisten, and Geralt likes running his thumb over the gems and engravings in them when Jaskier links their fingers together. He likes gold and silver and gems and fragrant oils, and any time he lingers for a moment outside of a merchant’s stall, nose wrinkled in thought of whether or not he could spare the gold earned from playing in taverns on something, Geralt watches.

He buys rings because he can wear them, and any oils and lotions and soaps that somehow end up in his bag are brushed off as ways he can make his Witcher finally relax for once after a particularly taxing hunt. And the gems he leaves behind. Even though he’ll pick them up, watching how they glint in the midday sun, he’ll set them back and part the merchant with a small grateful smile.

A few of those gems have ended up in Geralt’s pocket. He doesn’t know what he would do with them, or how he would use them or even gift them to Jaskier, but his songbird liked them and didn’t seem keen to part with them. So they take up a permanent residence in one of the smaller pockets of Geralt’s saddlebag. They come from all sorts of places; Nazair and Toussaint, to Aedirn and Poviss. Anywhere he and Jaskier have wandered together, he takes them as small reminders. And in the seasons he goes without his bird, he has something to remind him of him at least.

* * *

Getting to the _Three Crowns_ will take him through a few kingdoms. If he keeps to the main roads, not lingering in any towns for longer than he needs to, he’ll make it to the inn before Jaskier. And he doesn’t think he could cope with having to sit in a tavern’s hall and wait for his little bird to fly to him.

Smaller merchant towns are kinder to him than the bigger cities. He bundles his cloak tighter around himself when he rides through the cities, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and not the badly hidden curious looks from passing people on the streets. The whispers soon follow, and inevitably, the word _butcher_ will dust the shell of his ear. So he sets his heels against Roach’s side and continues on.

But the smaller towns are kinder. They’re quiet and people lap through them like gentle waves, flowing quicker in the day, but dissipating by night. Roach plods along, with Geralt slackening her reins and letting her stretch her neck out. It’s a quiet and still walk in through the town’s main street, and most of the shops are already beginning to board up their windows and draw their stands in for the night. An inn’s sigil hangs at the far end of the street, and Geralt aims Roach towards it.

Before he can let his shoulders slacken, his eyes fall on to a shop next to the inn. It looks like every other building surrounding it – red brick and ornately carved, with worn-paint signs hanging outside. The windows are still clear and its door is open, so he can presume that the merchant is still inside trading wears.

He blinks at the first recognisable word he manages to spot on the worn wooden sign.

 _Jewellers_.

Geralt slows Roach to a stop. The mare huffs, pulling at her bit slightly. The inn and its stables are literally _right there_. He sets a gloved hand to her neck, scratching into her winter fur beginning to fluff her out. “Wait here,” he rumbles, hopping down from her and on to the cobbles below. He hitches her reins to a small post outside and starts to rustle through his saddlebags. Empty vials of potions he’ll need to brew again, purses of gold that he keeps away from his person just in case of brigands. He fishes out the gems. They’re tiny things, just enough to gather in the palm of his hand.

He pats Roach’s neck one last time. “I’ll only be a second.”

Roach huffs, but waits.

* * *

He doesn’t know what it is, but all merchants tend to look the same. Regardless of whether they’re travelling the roads with him, they all have this glint in their eyes and glasses perched on the end of their nose, with finely kept clothes that reflect the wealth of their trade. And this merchant doesn’t look that much different.

The man inside blinks as soon as Geralt steps inside. “Witcher,” is the first word to bumble out of his mouth. A brief flash of panic blinks across his face before he tries to fight his way back to say something better than a profession as a greeting.

Geralt lifts his hand. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, looking around the shop. It’s unlike the kinds of stores Jaskier likes to drift in to. Wooden shelves along the walls stacked with all types of ornaments and glasswork. The storefront is a mixture of dark cherry wood and glass, showing off the expertly crafted necklaces and rings and bracelets he’s sure are worth every golden coin used to make them. The shop smells faintly of varnished and broiled glass and paint. It wrinkles his nose, but he steps closer to the counter.

The merchant adjusts his glasses. “What can I do for you, Master Witcher?”

Geralt holds out his hand, showing the gems gathered on his palm. “I was wondering if you could do anything with these?”

Even in the fading light of day, the orange strands of evening sunlight that stretch into the merchant’s shop, the gems glisten and gleam on his hand. The merchant gestures to them. _May I?_ Plucking each of them up and examining the way the light catches them, the merchant adjusts his glasses again, moving them up and down his nose and squinting through the lens. “Ah, yes,” the merchant muses, “amethyst, amber, emerald, garnet. You must be very well travelled, Witcher. Some of these gems are hard to come by in these parts.”

Geralt hums. “I travel for work,” he explains simply. “I’ve been everywhere.”

The merchant sets the gems along his work surface, lining them up. Some are slightly bigger than others, but all polished and showing off their colours. The merchant muses, running his eyes over them. “What would you like me to do with them, Master Witcher?”

Geralt lifts a shoulder. “That’s up to you,” he says. “I don’t have any experience in jewellery or fineries.”

And he tries not to bristle at the way the merchant’s eyes drift over every part of him for a moment. Worn and scarred armour, dried blood flecking his skin. He doesn’t even seem like one of the merchant’s patrons.

The merchant’s lips thin. He hums and turns his eyes back on the gems. “I could make something beautiful of these gems, absolutely,” he considers. “But it would cost gold and time, Witcher. Do you have anywhere you need to be in the coming days?”

He’s already going to be early for his meeting. A few days of rest before doing the last trek towards the _Three Crowns_ might do him some good. If he showed up to meet Jaskier like this, after so many seasons apart, he could imagine the bard instantly trying to shove him into a bath laden with oils and soaps. He can stomach to lose a few days to rest.

* * *

The _Three Crowns_ is their usual meeting point. Winter looms over the Continent, peering over the mountains to the west and already hinting at its arrival with chilling and biting winds that tumble down from the hills. The snow and frost keep away, thankfully. The last thing he needs is frozen roads. But they are somewhat flooded. He keeps to the main roads, laden with merchants selling the last of their wares before they can head home from the winter. And if he had any more gold left, he would buy some fruit or bread from them. But the last of his gold dwindles, just enough for a tavern room – something he’s sure Jaskier has already procured and readied for him.

His bones warm at the thought of being with his bird again. If Roach walks a bit quicker, with a noticeable spring in her step, it absolutely has nothing to do with the fact that Jaskier spoils her with more treats than hay and grains. And even she can appreciate having the bard around; also because it makes her companion happy.

The _Three Crowns_ is nestled in the heart of some town straddling a crossing of roads. It sees its fair share of passing traders and huntsmen drifting in from the road only to be swept off again. It reminds him of Posada, and he can understand why Jaskier always insists on it being their meeting up place. Roach chuffs at the sight of it in the distance, almost breaking out into a gallop just to read the town’s wooden barriers.

Stableboys linger around the yard and don’t even blink twice at him setting some gold into their palms. He hops down from Roach and takes his bags off of her before she’s led into the stables around the back of the inn, pawing insistently at the ground to get somewhere warm and full of oats and hay.

The tavern is as crowded as it always is. A hum of noise and the smell of roasting venison assault his senses the moment he steps into the tavern. It’s familiar. This meets him every time he comes to greet Jaskier and begin their wanderings together. But it’s been longer than usual and he’s missed everything about it.

He hauls his saddlebags over his shoulders, stalking further into the tavern. All the tables are already occupied, farmers and merchants and passing huntsmen bowed over their dinners and knocking back tankards of ale and mead. Geralt’s eyes scan the room, looking for the familiar spark of colour that usually stands out from the rest.

And his ears twitch when he hears hurried footsteps approaching from his side. Through the maze of tables and people sitting at them, Geralt watches Jaskier almost trip over his own feet as he hurries towards him, a bright smile and glistening eyes already settled on his face. Geralt has just enough time to let his saddlebags drop to the ground by his side before he’s tackled into a hug. His arms hover in the air for a moment. The closeness Jaskier insists on having with him isn’t something he was ever used to. But he’s warming to it.

As his arms slowly coil around and gather his bard to him, Geralt buries his nose into the hollow of Jaskier’s neck. His lungs fill with the scent of the other man. Sea salt that he likes to scrub and soften his skin with, and the faint lilts of desert roses and vanilla coats the roof of his mouth and Geralt is loath to let the bard go. Jaskier seems to be in a similar position. His arms are curled around Geralt’s shoulders and neck, locked and unwilling to let him go just yet.

The rest of it fades away. The tavern, those gathered within it and all of their conversations melding into one lapping wave of noise. Geralt’s lungs can fill again as he breathes Jaskier in, and a deep rumble purrs out of his chest at the feeling of the bard’s hands settling on to his back, slowly rubbing at the plains of muscle there.

He isn’t sure how long he spends holding on to Jaskier, but eventually the bard tries to slip away. Geralt’s arms tighten. A light breathless laugh shakes through Jaskier. “Come on,” he murmurs, setting his hands on to Geralt’s elbows, “I’ve got us a room.”

He’s slow to let go of the little bird. Even then, he only allows a small sliver of space between them. Jaskier catches one of his hands, and even through the thin leather glove, he can feel the warmth of the bard’s skin blooming through his.

As soon as he has gathered his bags again, Jaskier leads him away, from the prying curious eyes of the other patrons nearby. He’s lured upstairs, until the conversations below become nothing more than a distant hum and Geralt feels like he can think again.

Just as he imagined, Jaskier already has the room ready. The hearth within the wall crackles and spits with a freshly fed fire and candles dotted around, perched on dressers and cabinets, offer a warm glow to the room. With fresh linen sheets and furs lining the foot of their bed, his bones ache at the thought of going to sleep.

A bath has already been brought up and filled, and the air is scented with the musk of desert rose and something sweet laced underneath it.

As soon as he pulls Geralt inside, Jaskier clicks the door shut behind them. He squeezes Geralt’s hand, but doesn’t move to pull away. “Now,” he says primly, “I’m sure you have stories to tell me, darling, but I insist on bathing you first. The road hasn’t been kind to you.”

 _Because you haven’t been on it with me_. The words lodge in his throat and Geralt struggles to keep them behind a shut jaw.

With his saddlebags put to the side, Jaskier’s nimble fingers set on the many belts and buckles of his armour. It’s different; having someone else do it. He remembers the first time where he stood frozen, wondering why his newest travelling companion insisted on removing armour Geralt has been wearing for years. He can do it himself. But now he’s content to let Jaskier strip what he can off of him, leaving him in a worn linen shirt and breeches. He toes off his boots, leaving them alongside the pile of armour that gathers beside his bags. He’ll clean it in the morning, before they go, but as Jaskier drifts over to the bath, already rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, Geralt pauses.

Jaskier moves around the room so seamlessly, as he is with most things. He gathers what he needs to bathe Geralt; lotions and oils for his aching muscles, and a comb to try and wrangle his hair back into something tame.

The bard eventually catches his eye. “Are you going to stand there all night,” he laughs breathlessly, setting a hand on to his hip, “or are you coming over?”

Geralt blinks. His fingers flex by his side, not entirely sure what he should try and do now. He glances over to his saddlebags, piled up beside a nearby dresser. Geralt grunts, holding up his hand. Jaskier cocks his head, but watches the Witcher regardless.

He roots through his bag, looking for a soft felt bag kept in one of the more secure pockets inside. He fishes it out, making sure that the gift is still intact. He tried to keep it safe. He might have even lost hours of sleep because he worried about brigands and highwaymen storming him on the road and taking it.

But now, he somehow manages to force his feet to take him over to Jaskier. The bard looks at him puzzled, his gaze drifting down to the small bag caught in Geralt’s hand.

There’s a moment between them where nothing is said. And Jaskier tilts his head, eyes searching for Geralt’s as the Witcher tries to gather what to say. Because how does he even go about presenting something like this? Geralt clears his throat. Gods, words really aren’t his strong suit. He stretches out his hand, handing the bag over to Jaskier. When the bard looks to him again, lifting an eyebrow, Geralt rubs the back of his neck. “It’s, uh...It’s for you.”

Jaskier regards him for a moment, slowly letting his deft fingers unlace the drawstring and pull the ties apart. A lot of gold and time made what Jaskier is fishing out of the bag, and Geralt’s stomach churns. Gods alive, what if he doesn’t like it?

Jaskier blinks when he lifts his gift out. A necklace of gems, expertly melded together like petals of a flower. Each gem is its own petal, but together, they represent something more. Their journey together, the wanderings all over the Continent and the time spent together. The gems glint in Jaskier’s eyes, bright crystal colours joining the ocean blue Geralt likes losing himself in. The chain is something lithe and simple, small interlinking locks of silver that don’t distract from the flower hanging from it.

Jaskier rubs his thumb over each gem, and the thin and lithe metalwork that binds them all together. His lips part, something resting on the tip of his tongue, about to be spoken, but Jaskier all but gapes. “This...” he stammers, glancing over to Geralt. “Gods, Geralt, how much did this cost, I—it’s _beautiful_.”

Geralt can feel a flush warming his cheeks. “You, um,” he rasps, clearing his throat again. “You liked the jewels. In the markets we visited. But you never bought them, and I, I don’t know, I guessed that I would get them for you but, uh, I didn’t know how to present them.”

He nods to one of the gems. “The, uh, the lapis is from Toussaint,” he manages to get out, because if he talks about the gems and focuses on the gems and the gems _alone_ , he won’t have to look at Jaskier staring at him. The lapis was the most expensive, but it’s the most beautiful. “The topaz is from that visiting spice market in Redania.” All things that caught Jaskier’s eye, but he had to leave behind. And now it’s here, for him, in a way that he could wear.

Geralt manages to tear his eyes away from the necklace, glancing up and catching the bard’s gaze. Jaskier stares at him, mouth and eyes wide, and for a terrifying moment, he doesn’t say anything. Geralt’s throat bobs. Maybe this is too much. Maybe he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t even mourn the loss of the gold spent on it, but the way he could potentially have soured things between them.

And then Jaskier’s moving. Geralt has just enough awareness to notice heat bloom on the side of his face before Jaskier leans forward, catching his lips in a soft and languid kiss. He stands stock-still for a moment before he melts into it, reaching up to brush the backs of his knuckles along Jaskier’s cheek. His own is nestled into the bard’s hand, his thumb brushing along his cheekbone in something so soft and undeserving of him and his life that he struggles not to shrug it away. Jaskier has always been so kind and soft to him, with gentle hands and lulling words.

Jaskier breaks their kiss when air thins, but he doesn’t go too far away. He sets their foreheads together; the ends of their noses brushing and a shared breath mingling between them. Geralt watches a bright and outrageously happy smile spread across the bard’s lips. “This,” he laughs breathlessly, “gods alive, Geralt, this is beautiful. Thank you. I, gods, how did you even think of something like this?”

He honestly doesn’t know. Jaskier is a worryingly big part of his life now and he needed it immortalised somehow. If, _if_ , the bard didn’t come adventuring with him out on the road anymore, at least there is a reminder of all the places they did go together.

Jaskier lures him into another long and languid kiss. His lips are soft and it’s a struggle to break apart from them. Eventually, one of Jaskier’s hands settles on the centre of his chest. His smile hasn’t even budged. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Geralt hums. It’s taxing, trying to muster words and make some effort to say them. And what could tumble out of his mouth may not be the way he wants them to come out. So he nudges his forehead into Jaskier’s, enough of a physical touch to widen the bard’s smile.

He doesn’t want to pull away. He has Jaskier back now, and he’ll bundle the bard off to Kaer Morhen with him for the winter, and spend the following seasons after that traversing the path with him. And the thought of all of that settles into the core of his chest and blooms warmth through him; undoing all the stresses of the past seasons, unwinding tension better than any bath or sleep ever could.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated


End file.
